Don't Be A Bad boy
by Anansay
Summary: Case file. A killer is on the loose in Las Vegas. Three people have died in as many weeks. There is no evidence pointing to anyone. COMPLETE. As promised: no more WIPs.
1. The Boy

TITLE: Don't Be a Bad Boy  
AUTHOR: Anansay  
RATING: PG-13 – for mature theme and description of a crime  
SUMMARY: A killer is on the loose in Las Vegas. Three people have died in as many weeks. There is no evidence pointing to anyone.   
DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of these characters and am making not one red cent from all this hard work.   
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is my garbled nonsense attempt at a case file. I wanted to do something from the perspective of the killer – to see if I could successfully delve into a deeper, sinister side and come up with something plausible – thus the beginning. This is what I came up with. Read at your own risk. J 

Don't Be a Bad Boy

by Anansay

September 3, 2003

1 - THE BOY

He stared at them from the window. Those people who always came to the scene, after the cops did. Those people with those dark blue uniforms with CSI marked on the back. The cops picked you up, but they got ya good. He hated them. They were his enemy. His nemeses.   
He thought about the boy in the house. The house they were walking into just now. He thought about how he had looked that day, in the grocery store. Not a boy, really. A young man, picking out his fruits for the week. His ash blond hair falling partly over his face, half covering it before he tossed it back to gaze more intently at a pear in his hand, sniffing it, feeling it, squeezing it.   
Hmm, the squeezing he had watched how the man's hands had handled the pear, so delicately, so gently and felt the familiar tug in his groin. He had picked up his own fruit and had made as though he were shopping. The basket hanging from his elbow joint held some odds and ends of his blind choosing, just putting things in so as not to arouse suspicion.   
The young man had finished choosing his pears and was walking away. He watched how his hips swayed just slightly in his jeans one size too small. Such a firm butt, he thought and swallowed. He imagined his hands on those cheeks, caressing, squeezing, just like he had done with the pear.. testing its firmness, its readiness, before the final plunge was taken.   
Now it was cucumbers. Those long hard fruit, that people still called a vegetable. He felt the anger rise in him at the voluntary ignorance of so many people. It was a fruit dammit!! He took a deep breathe and exhaled slowly.   
"Th-those are n-nice cukes." He'd said to the young man, who looked up at him and smiled.  
And his heart almost stopped. Those eyes, oh god such intense blue, like that crystal you find in those really expensive china shops, the ones your mother never took you to because she never trusted you enough. Crystal clear and blue and so deep. And the smile only added to his beauty. He assumed the man to be in his early twenties, probably fresh from living with his parents, enjoying the new freedom of independence. Maybe a freshman in college. A man-boy.   
"Yes, very nice." The man-boy said as he picked one up and held it suggestively against his gut, his fingers gently squeezing the circumference, going lower as he checked every part. His eyes stayed on the young man's fingers, tensing and relaxing as they moved down the shaft cucumber!   
Slowly he brought his eyes back up to the young man's whose were now darker and more suggestive, having caught the older man's glance.   
"I'm making a salad tonight. Gotta have your greens, you know!"   
"Uh-huh greens g-good for you" he swallowed hard when the younger man's tongue snuck out to lick his lips which really didn't need licking. "T-tell me, is a c-c-cucumber a f-fruit or a v-vegetable?"  
The smile faded as he'd considered the odd question. "A fruit, the seeds are on the inside everybody knows that."  
"N-not everybody." He'd grumbled in return. Then he smiled, the smile he knew men like him found attractive. "I'm Carl." He tilted his head a bit to the side letting the smile falter just so.   
"Marcus."  
"S-so nice to m-meet someone who knows the d-difference between a f-fruit and a v-vegetable."  
The younger man stared at him a bit, his eyes boring into his. And then he leaned slightly on one leg, jutting his hip out to the side, resting his own basket on it. "Would you like to come over for some salad?" It was damn near impossible to miss the suggestive undertone in that outwardly simple request.   
He had regarded him with a feigned mixture of surprise and then a smile of his own had come over his face as he had accepted the young man's invitation.   
So he had followed the man-boy home to his place and indulged in a very good salad with a variety of vegetables and seeds. He was duly impressed and even had second thoughts about doing what he came here to do. Such a culinary artist should not be wasted on one man's perverted desires. But, alas, as his father had always taught him, Always follow through with what you start, son. It's the sign of a efficient man. And he was strong, dammit! Very strong.   
So he had done it.   
His crystal blues those eyes will never shine again without the help of the medic's flashlight shining into them. And his body, so soft and willing against his own, would now be hard with necrosis of the flesh. His beautiful face with its dazzling smile never again. His hands that had brought a similitude of pleasure to him would never again caress another or himself.   
His beauty had been desecrated.   
He watched now, as the stretcher came out of the house, the white sheet covering his body now spotted here and there with the blood that he had left on the body. No need to clean up. He hated cleaning. His mother always made him clean. And his father always made him finish. Finish what you start, boy! It's the sign of a strong man.   
He watched as the two orderlies, er ambulance attendants, "escorted" the body. Like, what, the body was going to get up and walk away?   
He – it – was wheeled and heaved into the back of the ambulance. He felt nothing. Nothing at all. There was no joy in his heart. And no sadness. Nothing. A gaping empty hole in his chest. A black hole that seemed to suck all emotion from his body. He felt nothing.   
It was always like that afterwards. During the act itself, it was pure exhilaration as adrenaline coursed through his body, firing his impulses, clearing his senses, making them stronger, feeding his brain. He was intelligent during the act. He was powerful. He was strong.   
He was his father's son.   
But afterwards, it all went away. And he was left as he was before: dumb, stupid, idiotic. Just like his father told him he was. What's the matter with you, boy? What are you, deaf? Didn't you hear your mother? She needs more potatoes! It was little things, his mind told him. But little things have a tendency to grow big when piled one upon the other.   
And now the CSI people were coming out and conferring with that big guy, the cop detective one. He watched as they scanned the area, walking oh so gingerly around lest they should spoil any evidence. Stupid people! Didn't they know? He never left anything for them. He didn't even like them. Why leave anything for them?! For the past three times he'd never left anything lying around. He was very careful with that. Only one drinking glass which was wiped clean after the act. He brushed his hair thoroughly before every hunt to remove any loose ones. He always remembered everything he touched and wiped those down too. And he was careful to touch very little. It was too hard to remember.   
Keep clean. Always. Clean your room, son. It's a sign of a proper man. A proper man.   
That he was. He always cleaned up after himself. If anything was found out of place it was bad. Real bad. He shut his eyes against the memory as his body shuddered. He bit his tongue and tasted the blood in his mouth. His blood. He opened his eyes and milked his tongue with his teeth and gums, tasting more blood. The coppery taste stayed with him while he watched as the CSIs walked around the house, head down, eyes trained on the ground, silver cases in hand in case they should find anything. He watched as one of them bend down and closely examined some infinitesimal piece of supposed evidence. He smiled as he imagined their faces when they realized it was nothing. Nothing.   
He had learned how to be impeccably clean and tidy. It was a requirement of the hunt and its subsequentness. With absolute control of the senses – never giving in – he would perform to the best of his abilities. Glorifying at the exquisiteness of it all.   
Now they were leaving. His butt was sore, the hard wooden chair pressing uncomfortably on the bones, making the little knotted hole that was his anusprotrude painfully. He squirmed in his chair, wincing as the pain gave way to a sort of quasi-comfort level. He leaned over and rested his head on his hand, elbows on the window sill. He gazed down again. Most of them were gone, just a couple remained, one standing, the other taking photographs. Some of the house, some of the ground, some of the surrounding throng of people – like he'd be stupid enough to be down there at a time like, stupid fucks!   
And then woman suddenly craned her neck upward with the camera stuck to her face and he saw the faint flash of light. He ducked back inside, his heart fluttering painfully in his tight chest, blocking the air intake. Dropping from his chair, he hugged the wall, his hands to his chest, eyes darting maniacally around himself, noting everything and anything that might lead back to him.   
After a few minutes, he pulled himself up slowly, fingers on the sill. He peaked through the window but there was no one. The crowd was thinning. No more of those cop people traipsing over his territory.   
He was alone again. Alone with satisfaction of having beaten them again.   
Alone. Alone with the pain.   
The voice started whispering again.   
Stupid boy fucking idiot! It ain't over. Get up! Get out, you stupid fucking idiot!!   
The man groaned, cupping his head with his hands, shutting his eyes tight. Through his tightly pursed lips a small wailing could be heard forcing itself through. His body began to rock back and forth, faster and faster until his head was almost banging against the floor. He rocked and rocked, humming loudly in his mouth to drown the voice in his head. No no no no   
  
It stopped. He didn't know when it stopped, only that his stomach hurt from keeping his head from banging the floor and his back hurt, his legs hurt, and his head felt like someone had poured molten lava and it was hardening, pushing against the sides of his skull, his temples.   
He looked around himself and his eyes burned, filaments of pain extending across his eyes and shooting to the back of his head. His stomach gave a violent lurch and he rolled to his side, clutching the outlaw gut that threatened to take over and spill itself, soiling the floor. Groaning and breathing heavy, he slowly gained control over his body, bringing it to his will.   
Always his will. It was his body, wasn't it. He was the one who controlled it.   
After a few minutes, the quaking settled and he was able to roll himself back up and onto his feet, hand against the wall for support. His head gave a massive thump blinding him with white lights and he lost the wall, and then his hand, and then his arm.   
Oh god, his body was disappearing!   
He took a deep breath and the feeling came back slowly, pins and needles down to his finger tips. He needed to find the door. He needed to get outta there. His body was betraying him.   
The stairs moved beneath his feet, coming at him and then dropping from beneath him. Leaning against the wall, one hand on the railing, he slid down the stairs, his feet like cement blocks covered in rubber.   
The light of the day greeted him with a searing pain that shot through his body like a lightning bolt. He groaned and covered his eyes with a hand, the other searching madly on his body for his sunglasses. The extra darkened lenses took away some of the glare but he still had to squint, tensing muscles that didn't need any more tensing.   
He caught the bus, sliding down into the seat and drawing his knees up to his chest.  
Sleep. It was all he wanted. It was always like that, the antithesis of the exhilaration of performing the deed once again. The flashing of the passing buildings caused the pain to swell to massive proportions. He groaned and shut his eyes, covering them with his hand. Then the shaking began, the interminable shaking that wouldn't stop until he'd rested his body.   
  
He opened his eyes and was instantly disoriented, a wave of fear washing over him when he didn't immediately recognize the buildings. His eyes went from side to side, trying to catch a glimpse of anything familiar. And there it was, Smith's Markets. Another block and he would be home. Thank God. He pulled the string, stumbled off the bus and managed to get his key into his lock on the fifth try, the shaking in his hands becoming spasmodic. His unmade bed greeted his falling body and he closed his eyes again, this time for a very long time.   


~*~

Copyright © 2003 Anansay


	2. Anger

Don't Be a Bad Boy

Chapter Two

2 - ANGER

"Three vics and we have nothing!"   
Sara's voice was rising in crescendos from the breakroom. The rest of the team was assembled, having just arrived from the crime scene.   
"This guy is good," Nick said, leaning back in the chair, arms folded over chest, his dark eyes darker with frustration.  
"Too good," Warrick Brown added. He was leaning against the wall, one leg vibrating in frustration as well as from an overdose of caffeine.   
The entire crew had been at work for nearing 18 hours and there wasn't one among them that didn't feel something akin to rage at the brutal homicides that had plagued the city for the past three weeks. Always on a Friday, the crew being called in that night to find a bloody, disemboweled, corpse. No eyes to stare pointedly at them in silent accusation, no hands raised in supplication from the assailant. And no feet. The cause of death – besides the mutilation of the body – was strangulation. The victim would watch horrified as the assailant pulled his intestines from his body and wrapped them around and around the neck and then pulling taut. As the eyes bulged from their sockets, they were summarily ripped out, to be found somewhere in the room, scattered like lost marbles. The hands and the feet would have been amputated long before, to aid in keeping resistance low.   
The first vic had sent most of the police squad to the bushes to empty their stomachs. The coppery smell of blood permeated nostrils and lodged itself into the minds and memories of anyone who'd allowed one foot into the tiny apartment. Eating was so far in the backs of minds, it threatened to steal from them their ability to think. The first person to order spaghetti would be shot on the spot, one person commented.   
Photos of the victim, surroundings, apartment and the crowds outside were laid on the table as well as what little evidence could be found that carried any remote significance to the killings. One thing did stand out: all the victims had been or were suspected of being homosexual. That was the one telling evidence that the team had that could lead them to their killer.   
"Most likely a homophobe," Catherine commented.   
Grissom's eyebrow rose in contemplation. "Maybe."  
Sara's head spun around. "What do you mean maybe'?! What other kind of sicko would choose homosexuals as their preferred victim? Like he didn't know?"  
There had been evidence of sexual activity just prior to the murders therefore it had been conjectured that such a possibility existed.  
Grissom met her glare. "It is a possibility, but we can't discount others. We can't limit our scope by our opinions or our own biases." Grissom had the knack of bringing things back to reality with a combination of a calm monotone voice and his unnerving broad opinions.   
Sara sighed and crossed her own arms. "We have nothing on this guy. Absolutely nothing!" She stood and paced behind her chair, her hands clenched by her side, nostrils flared as she attempted to contain her anger.   
"Whoa, girl! We're gonna get him!" Warrick pushed himself from the wall and stood in front of the huffing brunette. "It just takes time."  
"We don't have time. This guy works on a weekly basis. Three weeks, three vics. Another six days and we'll have another. More evidence mind you, but another damn victim!"  
"We'll catch him," Warrick repeated, his voice lowering to seriousness as he stared into her eyes, daring her to contradict him and lose more confidence.   
Sara swung her body into her chair, legs sprawled, arms still on chest. She stared with a pout at the table. 

~*~

Copyright © 2003 Anansay


	3. Waking Up

Don't Be a Bad Boy

Chapter Three

3 - WAKING UP 

When he awoke, his head groaned a million rumbles as he tried to turn it away from the light streaming in from the window. The blinds had long since ceased their function of shading since half the slats were either bent, broken or simply missing. This morning a particularly brilliant slash of light beat mercilessly into his eyes, but his head felt too heavy to move from the dazzling onslaught. With a groan he slapped the bed with a hand and forced his body to roll over, grabbing the sheet with him and further tangling his body.   
He lay there panting and gasping for breath, his body shaking uncontrollably from the pain of it.   
After a few minutes of adjusting to the endless throbbing, he tumbled from his bed onto the floor, grunting. With excruciating slowness he crawled to the kitchen cranny and hauled himself to his feet, holding onto the counter with all his failing might as his other hand reached blindly for the cupboard and feeling around for the rectangular bottle he knew contained his magic pills, the ones he couldn't get to yesterday, having forgotten them on his outing. Those magic pills kept the pain at bay, allowed him to live a quasi-normal existence. They kept the voices down; especially the insidious one, it was the loudest, the strongest, the one with the most meanness dripping from its disembodied rantings.   
His hands shook so violently, the bottle jiggled in his flailing hands before falling and rolling beneath his kitchen table. He groaned and fell to the floor, his eyes squinting at the bottle that rolled back and forth mockingly in a dip in the floor. He dragged himself along the floor, one hand outstretched toward the bottle, his lips moving in silent prayer to please let him just get it, just get the bottle and get those pills. All he wanted right now were those pills.   
His fingers touched the bottle and danced on it until it rolled his way. Grasping the bottle to his chest as though it were indeed a life-saver, he closed his eyes and tried to steady his racing heart and quivering body.   
_ Fucking maggot! _  
He shut his eyes even tighter as the voice started in again. The gravelly voice grated on his nerves, sending raw screaming flashes of pain to the backs of his eyes until he had to open them just to focus on something else, anything else. He rolled to his side and practically ripped the top off and poured the pills into his palm. They came tumbling out in a downpour, some falling to the floor and disappearing under the stove. He picked out three, threw them into his mouth and crunched them raw, wincing at the starkly bitter pasty taste , drying it instantly, but fueling those synapses in his brain to quiet the voices that he could feel just waking up in time to play their little games with him.   
_ Oh you think you're so fuckin smart, donchya!   
Shut up! _He cried in his mind.   
And the voice was quiet.   
He laid his head down, closed his eyes and was lost once again, this time to the stupor of the pills.   
  
The stained underneath of the table greeted him some hours later as he opened his eyes. For a second he thought he'd finally acquired the ability to fly and was hovering near the ceiling. And then he felt the hardness of the floor beneath him. With a sigh he rolled over and hauled his body to a standing position, cradling his heavy but painless head in one hand. His eyes felt dry and his mouth was pasty. He smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth a few times to try to elicit some form of saliva, but it didn't work. It never did. Just a normal automatic response to a dry mouth.   
His stomach grumbled, signaling its hunger. But the fridge bore nothing substantial to quell the demands.   
He plunked himself down in an old and ripped lazy boy chair in his living and grabbed for the remote control. There was nothing amusing among the paltry five channels on his television set. So he sat and stared at the blank screen.   
Food. He needed food. He needed sustenance. His stomach would not let him rest much longer. His head ached like a dull clanging on old metal. There was nothing to do but venture outside in the scorching heat of the day and attempt to appear normal.   
And then he remembered. Food. The supermarket. The young man. And the blood. His body began to tingle with the memory. How the blood had felt as he rubbed himself all over the still body of the young man.   
His eyes closed and his body jerked, a spasm of reminiscence. As much as he'd enjoyed the boy warm and giving, it was always just a façade of enjoyment. The true enjoyment would always come afterward, when he took his own turn and took out his own toys. Toys he would use on them as they lay gagged and terrified, emptying their own body of its urine and excrement. And that would always enrage him. His sight would dim until all there was to see were the eyes of his victim, staring beseechingly up at him, grunting behind the gag.   
His eyes snapped open and his hand came flying from his zipper.   
He'd done it again, that 'unmentionable' deed that had caused many a blood vessel to burst after his father had been done with him.   
_ Dirty filthy boy! Don't look at me. Don't talk to me. I don't want to see you. Go take your bath. And make sure the water's HOT, I tell ya!_  
And he'd go upstairs and run the water, making it was as hot as it could be, for he knew his father would come tromping up the stairs to stick his gloved hand under the faucet. And if it hurt his gloved hand then it was plenty hot for his son to properly cleanse himself of the deed'. And with quivering feet and barely held back whimpers of pain, he's dip his feet in. And flinch.   
The first time he flinched and took his foot out, his father had picked him up – with his gloved hands – and dropped him into the steaming water. The belt which hung loosely from his pants made sure the boy didn't utter so much as a sound while his body quickly became tinted a bright angry red. His father would stand there and watch as he'd pick up the cloth and soap and begin the task of cleansing himself, scrubbing until the skin was no longer red with heat, but red with blood, oozing from the miniature ripped open pores and tinting the water a lovely shade of pink.   
When the bath was finally over, the water was a pleasantly warm temperature, and he'd watch as the sickening colour disappeared slowly down the drain. Then he'd lay on his bed, bare skin open to the air in hopes of cooling his burning flesh. No tears were shed as the salt would burn the skin even more.   
  
The man jumped from his chair and began pacing the floor. Quick steps brought him from one side of the tiny room to the other in flashes of faded blue jeans and denim shirt. His bare feet squeaked at each turn, and greasy hair flew around only to whip him in the face. Lips moving constantly, muttering curses and forgive me's, a constant train of gibberish in the silence of the room.   
The food had been left at the man-boy's house. He'd completely forgotten about the food. And now his stomach demanded sustenance. He'd have to spend more money to keep himself alive.   
_ Stupid dumbfuck! _  
Just a squeak of a voice, but it was enough to set into motion the actions needed to step outside and appear normal.   
A shower. Brushing teeth and hair. A change of clothes. Don shoes and a jacket as well as the inevitable sunglasses, he grabbed his keys and flew through the door, taking the steps down two at a time.   
The sunlight hit him like a laser, making him back up against the wall, a hand shading his eyes.   
"Rough night?"  
"What?" The hand yanked down and the head whipped around to the one who would dare speak to him. Leaning against the bus pole was a man about the same age but dressed a little better and obviously faring much better with his easy smile. "Uh, yeah," he stammered and then turn around and headed for the downtown district, and food.   
He'd passed maybe three blocks when the sound came to him. Like a snake in hiding waiting to pounce, the sound came again. He paused and looked around him before spotting the shadow in the alleyway. Peering in, he recognized Samson.   
"Yo," he said as he too disappeared deeper in the shadows.   
"How ya feelin bro?" Samson asked, his hand sliding into his jacket.   
"Fuckin terrible. Whachya got?"  
"Just came across this new brand. Wanna try it?"  
"What is it?"  
"How the fuck should I know? It's white, it feels good. What's there more to know?" Samson said as he brought out a grimy looking bag with some coarse grey powder in it.   
"It's grey."  
"No shit. You want it or no, Carl? Fifty bucks."  
The man stared at the bag Samson was gently swaying in his hand, and he thought of the delirious feeling of flying. Maybe this time maybe this time he might actually fly. He reached into his back pocket and brought out a tattered black wallet of fake leather, and took out a wrinkled fiver. The exchange was made with no words and Samson disappeared deeper into the alley in ways Carl could only dream of doing. He made a mental note to talk to Samson about that later.   
Back in the daylight and feeling slightly better with the added tiny weight in his inner jacket pocket, he continued down to the market square. Fresh fruit and vegetables his mother had always said. _Only live foods could keep you alive. If you want to live, you eat things that are alive. _He headed back home a while later ladled down with bags of fresh sweet smelling foods.   


~*~

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Copyright © 2003 Anansay


	4. Coffee

Don't Be a Bad Boy

Chapter Four

4 - COFFEE

"Anything new?" Nick asked. He had just stepped into the breakroom where Sara and Warrick had already taken possession of the couch, their heads laying on the back, eyes closed. "What'dyou guys do, sleep here?"  
Warrick lifted his head. "Nope. Just resting the eyes."  
"And you, Sara? Didn't sleep again? You know you gotta turn off that radio once in a while."  
Sara's eyes opened more slowly than Warrick's and her head came up with an audible crack in her neck.   
"Ouch!" Nick commented.   
"Leave me alone, Nicki. That police scanner helps keep me on my toes."  
Nick took a seat at the table and picked up the remote control, turning the channel to the news. "Tell me, how can you be on your toes if you're too tired to even keep your head up?"  
"Go away, Nicki," Sara grumbled, as she stumbled toward the coffee machine. "Fuck!"   
"What?"  
"No coffee made. That really sucks. There should always be coffee made."  
"Well, be my guest," Nick said.   
Sara grunted an opinion and began rummaging through the cupboards for the filters and coffee grounds.  
"Hey guys!" came Greg's ultra-cheery voice from the hall.  
"Greg!" Sara called, running over to him and lacing an arm around his neck. "Greg, my man. How'ya doing?"  
Greg turned his eyes toward Sara's too-big smile and tried to ease himself from her too stanch embrace. "I'm fine. What do you want?"  
"Greggo, boy. Where's your coffee?" she demanded, the smile suddenly gone to be replaced by a look of such seriousness that Greg had to turne his entire face toward her as though seeing her for the first time.   
"Uh, _my _coffee."  
Sara tightened her arm around his shoulders, bringing a fisted hand up under his chin. "Greg. I need coffee. Now."  
He shook his head. "Uh-uh. It's my special blend. Imported straight from South America."  
Sara brought her face close to Greg's and smiled again, only this time her smile reminded him of an animal determined to get her prey. And this time her prey was either Greg's coffee, or Greg himself. He decided coffee was replaceable, he was not. "Third cupboard on the left, top shelf." Sara let him go so quickly he almost fell. "Just don't take it all, kay?"  
Warrick whooped and jumped from the couch to join Sara at the coffee machine, sticking his nose in the bag and taking a good whiff.   
"And don't take all the smell from it, guys!" came Greg's plaintive voice as he disappeared down the hall. "I'll be back for my cups, and there'd better be some left!"  
"Ah man, this is heaven," Nick chimed. "Greg's coffee's the best."  
"You're telling us!"  
"Telling us what?" came Grissom's voice.   
All three heads came up at once, with guilty looks on their faces.  
"Oh, Sara charmed Greg into giving up his special blend'," Warrick said. "It's percolating right now."  
Grissom craned his neck ever so slightly toward the machine, lightly sniffing the air and, finding it to his satisfaction, nodded his head, mumbled something incoherent and placed his piles of papers on the table. "Whose ready to work?" he asked.   
"Not til after coffee," Sara said, leaning against the counter and watching the coffee pot like a bird of prey, coffee cup held firmly in hand.  
Grissom stared at her over the rim of his glasses perched precariously on the tip of his nose but decidedly, wisely enough, to say nothing. "Where's Catherine?"  
"Don't know," Nick said.   
"Haven't seen her," Warrick added.   
Sara said nothing, and continued to stare at the coffee machine. The pot was only half way full. She considered stealing' some but the smell of burnt coffee – even Greg's – was not something she wanted to be smelling right now. So she waited.  
"That'd better be coffee I smell," came Catherine's voice as she rushed into the room, and proceeded to dump her cup of instant coffee in the sink and plunk a new cup on the counter.   
"Yeah, it's Greg's special blend'," Warrick said.   
Catherine turned a wide eye to Warrick. "How'd that happen?"  
Warrick looked pointedly at Sara. "Her charms, what else?"  
Catherine looked at Sara, an eyebrow raised.  
Sara shrugged. "I wanted coffee. Greg's coffee. So I got it. End of story. Now stop staring at me until I've had at least one cup."   
"Are we working as CSIs or as coffee pickers here?" Grissom said, his voice letting them know exactly what he thought about their seeming newfound obsession with coffee.   
"HA!" Sara exclaimed and yanked the coffee pot from its burner, sloshing a few drops on the counter.   
"Hey! Be careful with that," Nick said. "That's rich stuff!"  
"Don't I know it," Sara mumbled as she filled her own cup and put the pot back on the counter to go to the fridge.   
"Well, you could have at least poured us some," Nick said.  
"Pour it yourself. You are a big boy, right?" Sara smiled at him, bringing her cup to her lips and taking a sip. She sighed loudly and slid into a chair by Grissom. "Ready to work, boss."  
Grissom graced her with a glance. "Well, that makes two of us," he said.   
The others joined around the table with their own respective cups before them and Grissom passed out assignments. They read them as they savoured their coffee, too slowly it seemed to Grissom.   
Then one by one, they filed out the door, their case cards in hand and coffees transferred to portable cups. Sara stopped by the door just in time to see Grissom over by the counter, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "Couldn't resist, uh?"   
Grissom spun around, his eyes wide with surprise. "Sara! I, uh Aren't you supposed to be gone?"  
"I was just leaving!" she said with a grin and a wink and disappeared around corner. 

~*~

Copyright © 2003 Anansay


	5. A New Guy

Don't Be a Bad Boy

Chapter Five

5 - A NEW PREY 

Carl saw the man out of the corner of his eye. Maybe it was the brightly coloured shirt, something of a Hawaiian castoff or something. His head spun around, his curiosity taken the better of him. He stared open mouthed as the young man bounced and jiggled around the stands, some books under his arm. His hair was gelled and spiked like some kind of electric storm was happening in his body causing him to vibrate like he was doing.   
He forgot his reason for being in the bookstore and just stared as the young man continued hopping down the aisle and disappeared from sight. Moving a few steps, Carl found him again crouched before a display, hands and fingers roaming over books like he was reading them from the tips of his fingers. Even in this crouched position, his body continued to move to some unheard tempo only the young man seemed to hear. His lips were moving, humming some tune or other. Having found his desired book, the young man jumped back and tucked it under his arm and skipped to another part of the store.   
Just the man's energy would have been enough for anyone to follow out of sheer curiosity, but to Carl there was something else. The young man's obvious exuberance and constant motion stroked something in Carl that he'd thought was long dead.   
Beneath the kaleidoscopic shirt, the young man wore some non-descript pair jeans that hung loosely from his hips along with a pair of sneakers. There was no telling his age from his clothes or his behavior, but Carl would have guessed early twenties, a recent addition to the student core that always came to Vegas in between bouts of demanding school work.   
He dropped his own books on an empty shelf and followed the young man outside, keeping a discreet distance. No use spooking him until he could find out more. And he would. The urging in his loins told him so.   
_ Fuck him!_  
Shut up.   
_ Fuck him! Fuck him now! Drag him behind those bushes and fuck him! _  
I said shut up.   
_ Fuck you then. _  
The bushes went past him and the young man continue down toward another shop. It was one of those shops that Carl would never have dared enter. It was too gaudy for his tastes, so he stayed outside and sat on a bench, picking up a discarded newspaper and waited.   
It didn't take long, perhaps the young man hadn't found something to his tastes. He came out a few minutes later, still with his book bag in hand and nothing else.   
Carl kept his eyes on him until he felt it was safe to get up.   
He lost him around a corner and felt a moment of panic, like finding oneself suddenly in a strange and alien world. But then he got sight of him again as he stood by a car. He was clapping someone's outstretched hand, a tall dark-haired man with a striking smile. But this one did nothing for Carl. He was too male. The two men chatted for a short time and then they both got into the car and it disappeared.   
Carl leaned against the wall, a mewling sound squeaking through his lips. Maybe that was his lover, he thought. A sinking, dragging feeling came over him in his chest and he had to force the breath in and to keep the sob in as well. He stared in the direction the car had disappeared, willing for it to return and the young man to get out and come to him. Or at least to see him again. In a city the size of Vegas, what were the chances of him seeing such perfection again?   
He sighed, pushed himself away from the wall and disappeared into the crowd.  
  
"So what'dya find?" Nick asked as they pulled into the parking lot at CSI Headquarters.   
Greg held up a magazine, _Journal of DNA. _"Just the latest issue. There's a series I'm following. Oh, and this too," he pulled out the book, _Blood Spatter Analysis. _  
"Blood spatter? Since when do you work on that?"  
"When I'm a CSI, I will," Greg said, with a lilt in his voice.   
Nick laughed. "Right. When you're a CSI. Tell me, Greg, what would we do without your music blaring all night long. It'd be boring without you."  
"Yeah, well. Get used to it. As much as I love the lab, I am going to get out of it someday. Do you know how boring it is to just press buttons all shift long? I want to do something that requires at bit more of my massive intelligence."  
" Massive'," Nick guffawed. "Yeah, we'll see."  
"Oh, you will, Nick my boy. You will."  
"We're here. Get back into your lab, Greggy boy."  
"_My _lab, Nick. Remember that. I am master of my lab. So says Grissom."  
Nick just smiled as the young man got out and practically skipped into the building. He followed behind as soon as he'd retrieved his own case from his trunk.   
  
"So, what's on the plate tonight, boss?" Warrick asked.   
"Quiet night actually," Grissom answered, his hands empty.  
"What?" asked Nick.  
"I'm scared," Sara said, smiling.  
"Yeah," Catherine said. "Just wait though, at about midnight, it's all gonna come crashing down and we won't know what hit us."  
Warrick harumphed, crossing his arms over his chest. "You know what this means right?"  
Everybody including Grissom looked at Warrick.   
"Paperwork."  
There were moans and groans throughout the group as Grissom looked from one to the other, a small smile on his face. "Paperwork," he said.   
"Oh joy," Catherine commented, rising from her seat, grabbing her coffee and leaving the room to find her own pile.   
"Ditto," Warrick said, following closely behind.   
Nick sat back, arms over his chest, a broad smile on his face.   
"What's that for?" Sara demanded.   
"I'm finished all mine," Nick announced smugly.  
Sara sneered and threw a coffee lid at him.   
"Hey, can I help it if I like to stay on track?"  
Sara mumbled something under her breath. "Yeah, well, we still have that triple homicide case open. Why don't you go rifle through that?"  
Nick sighed, sitting forward. "We've been through it all a dozen times. There's barely anything to go on. No DNA, no hairs, no fingerprints, nothing. The guy's cleaner than my mother!"  
Grissom glanced up just as Sara turned her head. They both looked at Nick.   
"There's always something, Nick," Grissom said in his quintessential staid voice, his eyes staring but a moment on the Texan before returning to the examination of his folded hands.   
"Not in this one, Grissom. The guy's clean."  
"No one's clean."  
Nick sighed, rubbed his face, got and disappeared in the hallway.  
"What about you?" Grissom asked Sara.  
"Me? I've got paperwork, sure."  
Grissom looked at her above the rim of his glasses, his eyebrows raised in silent question.   
"I'm getting to it," she said. "It's not going to go away. I'd just like to enjoy my coffee in peace."  
"Time, Sara. Time is always of the essence."  
"Nick's right, Grissom. This guy's good. We've been through the stuff a dozen times and we still come up empty handed."  
Grissom sighed and sat back, keeping his eyes on Sara. "There has to be something."  
"I'm telling you Grissom. You've been through it just like the rest of us. There is nothing there." She enunciated the last words carefully, making her point.   
"No one is that good, Sara. People forget, people make mistakes."  
"Well apparently, not this one."  
Grissom was silent as his mind tackled the very real possibility that there would probably be another murder before they caught him. The status of second best lab in the country came to mind and its probably slipping in ratings if they didn't catch this guy. But that thought was secondary to the fact that people were being murdered and he and his team were unable to catch him. Three murders. There ought to be something by now.   
"He'll get lazy," Sara said. "They usually do."  
"I know. I just don't want to think about how many people have to die before he gets lazy enough to leave us a clue."   
Sara stared at Grissom. His voice had changed. Perhaps his wall was cracking, she thought. "We'll catch him, Grissom. He won't get away."  
Grissom only stared at her and said nothing. But they both knew the words that went unsaid. _Maybe this time, this case, would be filed as unsolved'. _

~*~

Copyright © 2003 Anansay


	6. Meeting

Don't Be A Bad Boy

Chapter Six

6 - A MEETING

Greg walked out of the building and into the glaring light of the morning sun beating mercilessly down on the front of the building. He shut his eyes, covered them with a hand while the other fumbled for his sunglasses. When his eyesight cleared, he headed to his vehicle. After another long night of processing sample after sample and deciphering the results, his brain felt like mud on a hot day, unable to form or keep a complete thought. His coffee stash had dwindled quickly over the past few days and was completely gone by now. And his need for coffee was the only thought paramount in his head at the moment. He knew he had some at home but the thought of going home was not appealing, even if it meant superior coffee. What he wanted was company, people around him to remind him that he was still human. The coffee shop. Bland coffee, but there was bound to be people picking up their morning coffee and bagel on their way into work.  
He pulled into the shop a while later. He was right, the coffee was bland and no amount of cream or sugar could liven the dead taste. But he drank it anyway, wincing as the acrid taste burned its way down his throat. Within seconds he could feel himself beginning to vibrate again with the caffeine in his system. For all the lack of taste, it certainly had its fair share of caffeine, he thought, with a cynical grin.   
A man took the stool next to him and ordered a coffee. The proximity unnerved Greg for a moment. As much as he desired to be around people, having them this close was not something he really wanted at the moment. And considering there were many other stools around that were unoccupied, the fact that the man chose _that _particular stool stood out as a marker in Greg's mind. The man was just too close for comfort.   
"P-pass the sugar," he heard the man say in a soft voice.   
He reached over and brought the sugar container across him to the man.   
"Thanks,"  
"No problem," Greg muttered, hoping his lack of friendly overtures would make the man leave. Not so. The man began to speak to him.   
"C-come h-here often?" he said.   
Greg's head came up sharply. "Uh, no. First time actually." Greg's internal sensor came to life. A come on? He thought. This early in the morning? He sighed and stared down at his coffee, praying the man would just leave.   
"I-I-I like this place. It's s-s-small and c-cozy," the man was saying.   
"Mmm."   
"My name's C-Carl," and a hand came into Greg's vision. A rather small hand with long fingers and well manicured nails.   
It shook only slightly and Greg could only surmise the man was nervous. He looked from the hand to the man's face. It wasn't a face that would stand out in a crowd with its dull blue eyes and smooth skin. The dark brown hair, longer than normal, hung limply on the head. It was a young face, full of hope and yet Greg could see just a hint of something not quite right. His brown cotton jacket bore the signs of many years' wear and his pants, though maybe clean, had obviously seen many a day. Maybe this man hadn't learned the fine art of picking up people, Greg thought. He decided to be nice and shook the man's hand, introducing himself. It was a light grip, not at all strong, but feeble and meek. His fingers grabbing Greg's hands as though it were fine bone china. No strength at all. And they were clammy. Definitely nervous, Greg thought returning to his coffee.   
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man's hand wrap around his coffee cup and turn it this way and that in his hands before taking a sip. The man's constant movement reminded Greg of his own manic motions at work.   
"So, uh, wh-what do you do?" Carl asked.   
Greg suppressed the urge to sigh and instead took a deep breath. "I'm a scientist."  
Carl's movements stilled. "Oh." He said nothing more but his hands returned to twisting the cup. "Wh-what kind of s-s-scientist?"  
"Forensics."  
"Wh-what's f-f-forensics?"  
"I analyze the data from crime scenes." Greg offered.   
"Oh," Carl said, but Greg could hear that he had no idea what he'd just said.   
"I take the information and put it through a machine that helps me to know what it is, or who it is," he tried for a simpler approach.   
"Oh," and this time it sounded like he understood it better. "Th-that s-sounds really i-i-i-interesting."  
"I like it," Greg volunteered.  
"Th-that's good. A m-man ought to l-like what he d-d-does for a l-living."   
Greg looked up at the man. He was smiling down at Greg with a dazed look in his eyes. A look Greg had seen many times on people's faces when they Greg groaned inwardly when he realized exactly what was happening. He put on as good a fake smile as he could muster and showed it to Carl. "I work night shift and I'm really tired. I need to get home. Bye," he said and slid off the stool and headed for the door. Behind him he heard the sound of the man sliding off his own stool and following him. He tried to hurry but the man caught up with him and walked along beside him.   
"M-maybe I can m-make you s-something for b-b-breakfast?"  
Greg stopped and turned to stare at the man. "Listen, mister –"  
"- Carl."  
" –Carl. I don't even know you. I just want to get home and get some sleep. It's been a long night and long week."  
Carl's face fell at that. He looked down at his twisted hands. "Um, o-okay. S-sorry."  
Greg sighed. His good nature just couldn't let him leave like that. "Listen, Carl. I know what you're trying to do –"  
"You do?" Carl asked, his voice rising and his growing big.   
"Don't worry. I'm not going to hurt you, I just don't swing that way, okay?"  
Carl looked from Greg to the ground and back to Greg. He swallowed. "I'm sorry."  
"It's fine. Understandable. I have to go now." Greg turned and continued to his car.   
Then he heard Carl's voice again. "You work for the police?"   
Greg stopped. Was that an edge in the man's voice? He sighed and turned around. "Yes. I work for the police, Carl. Goodbye."  
Carl waved a hand about in the air, smiled and said goodbye. 

  
He watched Greg leave, feeling much better after this meeting than that last one, where Greg didn't even acknowledge him. What an odd coincidence, he thought, that Greg should work for the very people Carl despised. Who knew he'd see that young man again, and so soon? It must be luck on his side, thought Carl. His mind began conjuring up images of possibilities: meeting him again, inviting him home, sharing a meal with him, getting cozy on his couch It was all so tantalizing! The thrill of the chase, not to have someone so easy as Marcus had been. What a slut, he thought, grinning widely.   
That familiar feeling was starting again in the pit of his stomach. It began slowly and grew in waves to spread through his entire body, like wild fire in a windless day. And then it concentrated in his loins and made them throb in time with his heart. It was a odd feeling, not wholly uncomfortable, but not one he completely enjoyed either. He shifted and twisted in his pants, trying to adjust himself without appearing as though he were and then turned around and headed home. His jaunt for the day had been successful, even if the intention had never been to find anyone, let alone _him._ It had only been for a morning walk, considering his head felt less heavy than usual.   


~*~

Copyright © 2003 Anansay


	7. Who's Cute?

Don't Be A Bad Boy

Chapter Seven

7 – WHOSE CUTE?

Sara stopped dead in her tracks and craned her head toward the breakroom. A sound she'd never heard before had come gushing from the breakroom, Nick laughing so hard it sounded like he might crack a rib at any moment. She rounded the corner and stopped.   
Nick was bent over, arms around his waist, his face twisted into a grin that showed his teeth in all their white glory. As she watched, he struck out an arm and braced himself on the table as another wave of humour overtook him and he let it out in a loud guffaw. The tears streaming down his face and falling to the ground only lent a pathetically humourous slant to the entire situation.   
Standing off to the side was Greg, looking the complete opposite from Nick with a scowl on his face that would rival some sour-puss granny's upon seeing footprints on her pristine floors. He stood with his hands on his hips, sulking, his lips scrunched up in a tight knot on his face. Gone was the perpetually grinning face.   
Sara stood in the doorway and waited for Nick to regain some composure, herself fighting the automatic urge to join in but restraining in deference to Greg's reaction.   
"Oh god!" Nick was saying. "That is too funny!" He was whimpering now, trying his best to hold back on any more outbursts.   
"No, Nick. It's not funny at all," Greg said, still pouting and now turning away from the spectacle to pour himself some coffee. He'd visited his "friend" before coming into work and now had a fresh batch brewing.   
"Is that your special blend?" Sara asked, making her way toward the coffee machine.  
"Yes, but you're not getting any!" Greg said and he placed his body in front of the machine, blocking Sara's path.   
"Greg!" she said, sticking out her bottom lip and drooping her eyes at him.   
"Yeah! That's the way he likes it, Sara!" Nick said, giving in to yet another spasm of laughter.   
"Greg, what is wrong with Nick?"  
"Nothing."  
"Nothing?"  
"Nothing at all." Greg turned his back on both of them and took a sip of his coffee.   
Sniffling and holding his gut, Nick finally stood up and turned to face Sara and Greg. He sighed and breathed deep a few times, wiping the tears from his eyes.   
"Nick?"   
And his face almost cracked again, but he got control of it. He spoke, but it was in clipped tones as he still couldn't quite control his body. "It seems, that Greg here is found attractive by the same sex!"   
Sara turned to Greg. "Greg?"  
"So what?"  
Sara turned to Nick.   
"He wanted to cook him breakfast."  
Sara turned to Greg. "You wanted to cook him breakfast?"  
"No!" Greg said, spinning around to glare at both of them. "_He _wanted to cook _me _breakfast!"   
"Oh," Sara said, drawing the words as though it were some great and deep discovery. "And did he?"  
"Of course not! Hey, I like my women, okay? That's wo_men. _Plural. Lots of them. At the same time. No dick involved except my own. Got it?"  
"Sure Greg."  
He glared at them once more before trotting off to the safety of his lab. In a short moment, his music was blaring louder than before, and Sara and Nick could hear it from the breakroom. Sara turned to Nick who had taken a chair and was leaning back in it with a self-satisfied grin on his face.   
"Proud of yourself?"  
"Yup!"  
Sara sat down beside him. "Greg does sometimes make things go faster for us, when he likes us."  
"And?"  
"And do you think he just might, oh I don't know, forget some samples later on? Cause one particular Texan decided to make fun of Greg's attractiveness?"  
Nick turned to Sara. "You think he's attractive?"  
"I don't know. He has a certain, _je ne sais quoi, _about him, I suppose. He's cute, in a little brother sorta way."  
"Sara! I didn't know!" Nick said, a grin growing on his face, making his dark eyes crinkle mischievously.   
The hand came so quickly, Nick didn't have time to duck. It hit him square in the chest. His breath came out in a loud whoosh and he grabbed the table before he could hit it with his face. "Sara!" he wheezed.   
Sara stood over Nick's shuddering body. "For the record, I am _not _attracted to Greg. Never was. Am not. Never will be."  
Nick wheezed, "Okay!"  
"Never will be what?"  
Both Sara and Nick jumped up. Sara scowled at Grissom leaning against the doorway, arms over his chest. "Why do you _do _that?" Sara said.  
"Do what?" Grissom pushed himself from the doorway and sauntered into the room, keeping his eyes on Sara, his face devoid of all expression. He glanced down once at Nick.   
"Sneak up on people like that? This could have been a private conversation, you know!"  
"If it were private, don't have it in a public place."  
Sara scowled even more. Nick sat back, hand on his chest, glancing from Sara to Grissom and then decided being in the room with those two probably wasn't such a good idea. He got upt to leave but not before giving Sara a look that said he knew a little more.   
"So, never will be' what?" Grissom said.   
"What?"  
"You were saying, never will be'. What was it about?"  
"Oh that. Nick was just being cute, that's all. He was thinking I had a thing for Greg, because I said he was cute." Sara said with a shrug of her shoulders. She was keenly aware that they were the only ones in the room and it made her feel curiously barren, no place to hide. Didn't help that she'd have to actually walk around Grissom in order to leave. So she took a seat and waited.  
"Do you?" Grissom asked.  
"Do I what?"  
"Think he's cute."  
Sara stared at Grissom, as he took a chair beside her. "Grissom." And then she smiled. "There are lots of guys around here I find cute and attractive. Doesn't mean I'd jump into bed with them."   
Grissom raised an eyebrow. "Like who?"  
"Grissom! As if you ask that!"  
"Why not?"  
"It's rather personal, don't ya think?"  
"Really?"  
"Really. Do I ask you who _you _think is attractive?"  
"There are few women around here I find attractive, doesn't mean I'd go to bed with them," he said, consciously mimicking Sara's previous statement.   
"This has got to be the weirdest conversation I've had with you, yet!" Sara rose and went to the counter for some more coffee.   
"Hey! We working?" Warrick's baritone voice broke the thin spell that had come over Sara and Grissom. He sauntered into the room, the coolness of his being drawing Sara's eyes to him as he took a chair opposite them.   
Grissom turned toward him as well. "Of course. But we're not all here. Nick took off somewhere, and Catherine is late."  
"As usual," Sara said under her breath.   
"I'm here," Nick said.  
"Sorry guys," said Catherine, barely missing the edge of the doorframe as she came running down the hall and took her seat beside Warrick. He glanced at her and smile. Nick took his seat.   
"So, it's Friday," Grissom began. "No body yet. But we do have other cases that've come up. Nick, Warrick, you have a robbery. Catherine, Sara, a b&e." He handed them their respective cards.   
"I'm driving," Nick said as he jumped up and practically ran out the door.   
Warrick stared after him, a pained look on his face. "Kids," he said and followed behind, a little slower.   
"And what about you?" Sara asked.  
"Paperwork," Grissom grinned, but it didn't reach his eyes.  
"Pity you," Catherine commented, standing.   
Sara smiled softly and followed Catherine out the door, leaving Grissom alone with his paperwork. 

~*~

Copyright © 2003 Anansay


	8. The Taking

Don't Be A Bad Boy

Chapter Eight

8 – THE TAKING

Greg stood outside the building, puffing on a cigarette. Nick's rib jabbing comments weren't settling well within him. It wasn't like he'd set off to be picked up, all he'd wanted was some vicarious company.   
He sucked up more smoke from the cigarette.   
They all expected Greg to come into work dressed in zany clothes and listening to loud raucous music. Didn't they realize that he wasn't always like that? That he actually had some down days? Perhaps not. Well, this was one.   
His cigarette had gone down to the butt, so he threw it down and pulled out another, his third. When he felt better able to handle the office politics, he'd venture back inside. He brought the cigarette to his lips and was just about to reach for his lighter when a flame came in front of his face. He jumped back and his head spun around to catch the one offering.   
There stood Carl, smiling shyly beneath a baseball cap. He'd changed clothes, or just took his jacket off. Greg took a step back, the cigarette falling to the ground. _Oh god, now they'll see him! _He thought. He continued to stare as Carl smiled and bent over to get the fallen cigarette. With hands that shook but a little, he put it to his own mouth and lit it, then gave it back to Greg. His stomach turned a little bit at the thought of putting it back in his mouth, but his nerves had started jangling again and he knew the nicotine would calm them. Besides, it was just a smoke. People did that everyday, didn't they?   
"Thanks," Greg said.  
"N-no p-p-problem." Carl smiled.   
Greg regarded Carl through squinting eyes a moment. "Tell me Carl, are you nervous, or do you always talk with a stutter?"  
Something flickered in Carl's eyes but it was gone before Greg could recognize it. Instead, Carl smiled and dropped his head, hiding his face. "I-I've a-a-always s-s-s-stuttered. S-s-since I was a l-little k-k-k-kid."   
"Ah."   
"S-sorry."  
"Hey, don't apologize. Everybody has their quirks, right?"  
Carl smiled again, only this time it was brighter and reached his eyes. "Yeah."   
Greg took a few puffs and felt his heart slowing to a more natural rhythm. "Listen, I'm sorry about this morning. I was just getting off work. We've had this case for the past three weeks and it's driving all of us nuts."  
"Th-that's o-o-okay. Wh-what's it about?"  
Greg sighed. "Can't talk about it. Open case and all that."  
"Oh."  
Greg threw out the butt. "I have to back now, Carl."  
Carl's face dropped. "Oh."  
"Maybe I'll see you around."  
Carl looked up at Greg. His eyes suddenly so bright, they looked almost too happy. "Uh, c-can I show you s-something?"  
"Where?"  
"A-a-at my car."  
Greg looked around. There barely any cars on the street and no one on the sidewalk. They were, for all intents and purposes, alone. "Where's your car?"  
"A-around the c-corner."  
Around the corner was dark. No street lights lit that area. Greg swallowed. "How about you show me tomorrow, Carl?"   
"I-I-I'd r-r-really like to sh-show you now. Please. It'll be quick. S-something I p-picked up for you today."  
"You bought something for me? Why?"  
Carl looked down, and shrugged his shoulders. The man looked like a child with his spirits crushed, but he also made Greg nervous. His entire demeanour spoke of someone with something to hide, or not all quite there.   
"Why don't you bring it here?" Greg suggested.  
"I-I-It's too big."  
"I thought you said it was little?" Greg began looking around himself in earnest.   
"It is. B-but it's heavy."  
"Carl. I really think this should wait until tomorrow. I have to get back to work now. Bye." Greg turned around and began climbing the steps but a hand grabbed his coat and something came around to clamp down on his mouth. He breathed in the sweet pungent scent and his body began to fight, but an arm had wrapped itself around his waist and he was hauled off his feet and toward the alleyway. He tried to scream but his sight was dimming and he could feel his body beginning to slow down. He couldn't kick as hard or punch as hard. He had one moment of joy when he heard Carl grunt painfully, but that was all. And the darkness of night overwhelmed even the brightest street lamp so that before he knew it there was nothing more.  


~*~

Copyright © 2003 Anansay


	9. Missing

Don't Be A Bad Boy

Chapter Nine

9 - MISSING

"Hey, you seen Greg?" Nick asked Sara in the evidence room.   
Sara looked up, her eyes distorted behind the safety lenses. She brought them to rest on her chest. "Nope. He wasn't in the lab when I got back. He's still not there?"  
"Nope."  
"Did you check the restrooms?"  
"Yep, nothing."  
"Did he check out?" Sara took the glasses off and laid them on the table. She walked past Nick on her way to Grissom's office. Nick followed.   
"Grissom, where's Greg?" Sara asked.   
Grissom was lost somewhere behind three piles of paperwork. His head peeked out behind the last one. "Why would I know where Greg is? He's in his lab."  
"Sorry. He's not."   
Grissom slid his chair around his desk. "Well where is he? We have cases to process."  
"I know and I don't know. Thought you might."  
"Well, I don't."  
Sara reached for Grissom's phone. "I'm phoning the front desk." She dialed the number. "Yes, has Greg Sanders punched out?" Sara listened. "Thank you." She placed the phone back down. "He left about three hours ago."   
"Isn't that when" Nick said.  
"Yes."  
"In the breakroom?" Grissom asked.  
Sara nodded.   
"Why wouldn't Greg come back? It's not like we haven't jived him before. He can take it." Nick said.  
Sara just stared at Nick.   
"Call his home," Grissom said.  
Sara did. No answer. She placed the phone back down slowly, her eyes not meeting either one of theirs. Suddenly she turned to Nick. "What did he say about that guy who tried to pick him up?"  
Grissom's eyebrows rose, but he said nothing.   
"Nothing. Just that he met him in some café. Why?"  
Sara turned to Grissom. "The three vics, they were all homosexuals, weren't they?"  
Grissom stood up, paperwork forgotten. "Yeah."   
They stood in silence for a moment as the possible implications set in.   
"Oh god," Nick said.   
"Nick," Sara said. "What café did Greg go to?"  
"I don't know. He didn't say."  
"Jeezus!" 

~*~

Copyright © 2003 Anansay


	10. Gathering

Don't Be A Bad Boy

Chapter Ten

10 – GATHERING

The five CSIs sat around the breakroom table. Not a sound could be heard. Nobody would admit it aloud but as much as they spoke of Greg being a pain, they all felt kin with him. Greg had never questioned their own eccentricities. Not to mention he was very good at his job which in turn allowed the CSIs to perform their jobs even better.   
"What have we got?" Grissom asked.  
"Nothing. Once again." Sara said. She did nothing to hide the anger from her voice.   
"I can't believe this." Warrick was sitting back, staring blankly at the table.   
"We gotta have something." Catherine leaned forward, resting her chin on her steepled fingers.   
"We've gone over the evidence numerous times, there is nothing there." Nick kept going over and over in his head the last conversation he had with Greg.  
"Nick," Grissom said. "Tell us once again exactly what Greg said."  
Nick sighed and shook his head. "All he said was that some guy tried to pick him up over coffee. He said he was young looking and uh." Nick's eyes went blank as he remembered the scene in his head. Suddenly, his head came up, eyes big. "He said he stuttered! Greg thought he might have just been really nervous. He stutters!"  
"A stutterer," Sara said under her breath, cataloguing it away.  
Grissom wrote it down on a piece of paper. "What else?"  
Nick thought a moment. "He didn't tell me what café. Nothing else."  
"Well, that doesn't give us much to go on. There are a lot of people who stutter." Catherine said.   
"But it helps to narrow it down some," Sara said.   
Warrick agreed.   
Without warning, Nick's fist came crashing down on the table. "Dammit! If only I hadn't laughed at him. He wouldn't have gone outside."   
"Outside?" Catherine asked.  
Nick stood by the table, leaning on his hands, his head hanging down. "Yeah outside, why?"  
"Does Greg smoke?"   
"I don't know. I never seen him. Why?"  
Catherine had stood up, along with Sara, Grissom and Warrick. "Maybe there's something outside."  
"Shit, yeah!" Nick started to leave.   
"Whoa! We can't all go out there. We'll destroy what evidence there is with all of us out there," Grissom said.   
"I'll go," Nick said.  
"No."  
"What?"  
"I said no, Nick."  
"Why?" he demanded.  
Grissom looked at him. "Because you're too emotional."  
"I'll go," Sara said.  
Grissom looked at Sara. She was standing with her chin forward, legs braced apart, one hand on a hip. Her eyes bespoke an intensity that seemed to satisfy Grissom. "Fine. Warrick, you go with her. Look for tire tracks."  
"Got it."  
  
"You find anything?" Warrick asked from his crouched position on the sidewalk.   
"Not yet." Sara was crouched herself and waddling each step as her eyes scanned the sidewalk. Behind her in her case, was an evidence bag with three cigarette butts in them that she hoped were Greg's. There were too many footprints for there to be any hope in getting a clear one. A single fingerprint on the handrail was dusted and picked up, but who knew whose it was.   
"Hey!" Warrick called out.   
Sara looked up but Warrick was no where in sight. "Where are you?"  
"In here," Warrick said, sticking his head around the corner. "I think I've got something."  
Sara joined him in the alleyway, flashlight held firmly in hand. Warrick held up a cloth by tweezers and shone his light on it. Sara leaned forward and took a tentative sniff. "Chloroform," she announced.   
"Yeah," Warrick's voice was as gruff as he felt.   
"Shit."  
Warrick dropped it into a bag and labeled it.   
"Anything else?"  
"Not that I could find. Too many tire treads here. Hot spot."   
"Damn."  
"Let's get these back."  
"Right."  
  
Grissom, Catherine and Nick all rose when Sara and Warrick entered the building. The three had remained inside to preserve what scene there might have been.   
"What d'you find?" Nick asked.  
"Cigarette butts, some fingerprints from the handrail and a hankerchief we think was used on Greg. It reeks of chloroform."  
Nick sighed.   
"Okay," Grissom said. "Get those to Gr – the lab, and see what comes up. Is Hodges working tonight?"  
"Don't know, I'll check," Catherine said.   
"Good. Okay, now we wait."  
Nick followed behind, his feet dragging.   
  
Hodges took the samples from Sara and started immediately sorting them in whatever order he preferred to work in.   
"Sorry about Sanders," he said.   
"Hmm," was all Sara said.  
With deft fingers, he cut a piece of material from the hankerchief and prepared it for the mass spectrometer. That machine would give a definitive answer on what chemical compounds were on the hankerchief. Within a few minutes, a printer hidden in the corner of the room began spitting out a paper with graphics on it. Hodges retrieved it, read it and handed it to Sara.   
"Chloroform," he said.   
Sara read the chart, her face expressionless, like stone statue. "Okay, what's next?"  
"The butts."  
These Hodges used a small scalpel and scraped off a sliver, which he put into a vial with some clear liquid. This vial was then inserted into a compartment of a machine, closed and activated. The machine came to life with a whirring sound, lasted a minute or so and then stopped. Once again, the printer spat out another page, this one with charts as well. Hodges grabbed it and handed it to Sara.   
"Here you go." His manner was short and perfunctory, none of the theatrics that Greg employed to liven up a rather dull and boring job and shift. For once, Sara missed his antics. They had always served to put a smile on her face, even if the smile were one of annoyance.   
"Thanks, Hodges."  
"Say you're welcome to Grissom for me."  
"Sure," Sara said, not meeting his eyes.   
Just as she was about to round the corner, his voice came again. "I'm sorry about Sanders."  
Sara stopped and turned around. "Yeah," she said after a moment.   
  
"We need fingerprints from the hankerchief and those from the handrail," Sara said to Nick in the evidence room.   
"I already got the handrail ones done. AFIS is already looking for a math. What did you get on the butt?"  
"It was Greg's. I didn't even know he smoked."  
"Me neither."  
Sara passed Nick the hankerchief and he began laying it out and pining it down to a corkboard. "How long has he worked here with us?" he asked.  
Sara took a seat and watched Nick. "For as long as I've been here. Before that?"  
Nick stopped his movements. "I have no idea." His voice was soft and trembled just slightly. He stared ahead a moment and then resumed his work. He bent down and eyed the fabric from a level viewpoint, using his eyes at first to catch any tell tale sign. Then he picked up the board and placed in a glass box with a tray of heated glue. Replacing the lid, he sat back and folded his arms, his eyes trained on the clear box, waiting for a miracle.   
A few minutes passed in silence as the two CSIs waited. When the small bell dinged, Nick lifted the cover and retrieved the hankerchief. The heated glue fumes had brought out any fingerprints and they were able to take a specialized photograph of them to be loaded into the computer and AFIS could do its job.   
"The ones on the handrail ought to be Greg's and these ones ought to be one who took him," said Nick.   
"We hope."  
Nick stared at Sara. They both knew what the other was thinking, no words need be shared to confirm it. The lab felt eerily quiet without his music blaring away, or his manic dancing as he moved around the sensitive equipment like he rightfully belonged among them in the lab. Even his corny jokes before coming forth with the information, which had bugged each and every one of the CSIs at one point or another, was something gone and missed. It took the seriousness out of the day, even if for a moment. Now they were stuck with the ultra-serious geeks who took their work way to seriously for there to be any room for fun at all.   
It was odd how one person could affect the lives of those around them without even trying. Usually no one noticed it, until the person was gone. And then their absence stuck out like a sore thumb, a constant reminder of what had _been. _Greg was the colourful elephant amid all the grey ones.  


~*~

Copyright © 2003 Anansay


	11. Awareness

Don't Be A Bad Boy

Chapter Eleven

11 – AWARENESS 

Awareness came slowly, seeping in like a fog. Only this fog was gradually clearing away the cobwebs that had taken up residence. There was a dull thudding behind his temples. Perhaps it was the different smell that did it. Or maybe it was the sounds, traffic and people yelling and cursing nearby. Whatever it was, wakefulness came suddenly after the fog, like a street lamp suddenly lit in his mind.   
Greg's eyes flew open. The surroundings were different. Beige walls with cracks branching out and going straight up to the ceiling. Dark smudges hid some of the paths. And then there was the feeling against his face, of sheets in dire need of being laundered. He was sure their stiffness was not an indication of newness. But it was the smell, or the stench actually, that truly awoke him. Foul and malodorous, it reeked of human wastes and excrement that had possibly become home to some lucky hoard of insects. His head began to pound in earnest.   
Greg groaned and tried to roll over, but his hands wouldn't move. Rough itchy fibers dug into his wrists whenever he tried to move, and his ankles gave the same feedback. The chill on his feet told of shoes long gone. He lay on the bed, body tense and wide awake, his eyes roaming his surroundings, trying to identify anything of familiarity. There was nothing. He'd never seen this place before. It was a bedroom, he was sure. The dresser piled high with clothes, some hanging down to cover half of the dresser and the smallish lamp were definite signs. Craning his head around, he could just make out a doorway to his back but that was it. He was stuck staring out a grimy window to the opposing building, which he could barely make out, except for the lights in the windows.   
The silence was deafening, his breathing seeming way too loud. He tried to control it, to soften it, but then it was his pounding heart that interfered. It too got stern commands to ease off. Slowly, his body complied.   
Either he was indeed alone, or whoever had taken him was asleep somewhere else.   
Carl. His body tensed again. He could remember the man's eyes and that one instant where the man's walls seemed to fall, only he hadn't recognized it then. But now, in this place, he knew what it was.   
_ "Tell me Carl, are you nervous, or do you always talk with a stutter?"_  
Fear gripped him tightly. Oh god, though Greg, I insulted him and now he's getting me back. He began tugging on the rope that bound him but only succeeded in chafing his skin leaving a burning sensation, and he wondered if he'd actually cut the skin. Gathering all of his strength, he heaved himself and rolled over to face the doorway. The view was no better. The clutter seemed to be making a beeline for the outside door; the floor was nowhere to be seen beneath the extending pile of clothes. From the corner of his eye he saw movement. When he turned his head toward the night-table it was gone. And Greg had a sinking feeling humans weren't the only inhabitants in this place. He closed his eyes against the pain in his head and tried to clear his thoughts and calm himself once again.   
When he opened them nothing had changed. The room was still there, as was the odour. And then something else was added to the mixture: his stomach decided it didn't like its contents and began the age-old dance of spasming. With a groan, Greg yanked his body over to the edge and hung his head just in time for his stomach to empty its contents. All over the pile of clothes. Which only served to more terrify Greg in terms of possible consequences for up-chucking all over someone else's laundry. He lay back down and caught his breath. The insanity of the situation was not lost on his fuzzy mind. He'd been kidnapped. Taken by force, against his will. And now he lay on a crusty bed, in a reeking room, perhaps all alone, and for who knew how long. And who knew what might happen when the kidnapper returned. The room began closing in on him.   


Nick came charging into Grissom's office, startling a seated Sara.   
"Uh, sorry. AFIS spit out a name!"   
Sara jumped to her feet. "Who?"  
Nick held up a piece of paper. "Carl Dockery."  
"And an address?" Grissom asked.   
"3175 West Sangria Lane. Brass is getting a search warrant as we speak."   
Just then Grissom's cell phone rang. "Grissom great, we'll meet you there." He turned to his CSIs. "Brass has it, he'll meet us there. Whose coming?"  
"I'm not staying!" they both said.   
Grissom was at the doorway and gone, followed closely behind by Sara and Nick.  


~*~

Copyright © 2003 Anansay


	12. Survival

Don't Be A Bad Boy

Chapter Twelve

12 - SURVIVAL

A noise brought the room back into focus and Greg had to blink to keep it there. He lay still and listened. There it was again, the rustling of plastic. And footsteps. Greg froze and contemplated playing at sleeping but decided he wanted to have all of his senses on full alert, including his sight, so he lay and waited.   
A few minutes later a shadow fell across the doorway and Greg turned his head.   
There stood Carl, a curious expression on his face. He wore the same coat over the same clothes, but his hair looked oily and heavy, his face haggard.   
Greg stared at Carl, unable to believe it was really happening.   
"Well, I s-see you're aw-w-wake."  
Greg continued to stare.  
"H-hungry?"  
Greg shook his head and that's when Carl looked down and his face changed. A mixture of anger and disgust played on his features. He stared at the pile of vomitus as though he'd never seen the stuff before. His mouth twisted into a grimace and he looked back up at Greg with a different perception. His idol had proven himself not so god-like. He turned around and left.   
Greg panicked. "Carl!" he called out.   
But Carl didn't return. He heard no other noise, no door slamming, so he could only assume Carl hadn't left. But then, where had Carl gone? What was he doing? Would he come back? Did Greg _want_ him to come back?   
Carl did come back – sans coat – but with a garbage bag into which he put the pile of bile covered clothes in. Then he looked at Greg one last time and disappeared again. Greg called to him but there was no answer.   
When Carl returned a third time, he came in and sat down on the bed beside Greg. And that's when Greg noticed the smell on Carl and wondered how he hadn't smelled it before, in the café or outside CSI headquarters. A light bulb went on inside Greg's head. _Cigarette butts. _Would they find them? Would they think to look for them? None of them even knew he smoked, sometimes.   
None of this registered on his face as he returned Carl's stare, putting as much hatred into it as he could muster, while hiding his fear as back as he could.   
"M-maybe your arms are s-sore," Carl said and brought a pair of shears. Greg's eyes widened as Carl brought them closer to him.   
"Uh, Carl, there's no need for that, okay? I didn't hurt you."   
Carl's face changed, his eyebrows knitted together as he stared down. "I-I-I wouldn't h-h-hurt you, G-Greg."  
"You don't need the scissors, Carl."  
"But h-how am I g-g-gonna c-cut the rope?"  
Greg stared at Carl, understanding creeping in. Then Carl's hands were on Greg's body and he was rolling him onto his side. The cold metal of the scissors touched Greg's wrists and he tensed. There was a ripping sound and then Greg's hands were free. Carl moved down on the bed and soon the feet were freed too. Greg rolled over some more and sat up on the other side of the bed, rubbing his wrists. The skin was raw and chafed, as were his ankles. His eyes darted around the room before settling again on Carl, still sitting on the bed.   
"What do you want from me?"  
"I-I like you."  
"Yeah, well, I don't like you in that way, okay? I want to leave. Now."   
Carl's face fell. "You don't like me?"  
"Not in _that _way, okay? Now I'm going to leave. Now." Greg stood up and made to walk but the piles of clothes stole his balance and he fell against the bed. He was back up in a flash, but his progress was slow and wobbly. Carl had stood up and was standing in Greg's way. "Carl, move."  
"I can't."  
"Why not?"  
"Because I l-like you."  
Greg sighed. "Carl," he spoke slowly. "I do no like you in that way. I never will. Now let me go."  
"No."  
"What?"  
"I s-said no."   
Carl's hand still held the scissors loosely by his side. The tip was pointing directly at Greg, though not in any threatening manner, but Greg could easily see it becoming one in an instant. This wasn't a simple infatuated love-napping, Greg thought, and it probably never was. A chilling memory came to Greg: the case the CSIs had been working on, the three homicides. He looked up at Carl with a newfound fear in his heart. The fear on the bed was nothing compared to the fear that enveloped his heart and threatened to squeeze the life out of it even before Carl got a chance to. Greg had heard rumours of how the bodies were found: dismembered and disemboweled, no eyes, strangled with A strange sound came from Greg's throat as he fell back onto the bed in sitting position.   
"Oh god," he mumbled.   
Carl joined him on the bed, sitting next to him. "D-don't be afraid, G-Greg," he said.   
"You killed them," he muttered.  
"Who?"  
"Those three men."  
There was silence from Carl. A deadly confirming silence. "G-Greg"  
"Oh shit, you killed them. And now you're gonna kill me too."   
"I d-don't w-w-want to k-kill you, Greg."  
"But you're going to."  
More silence.   
"What did they go, Carl?" Maybe if Greg could keep him talking, maybe Carl might forget about killing him, maybe he might have some time to think his way out of this. People had always told him what an incredible mind he had, which was why he'd gone into sciences. Maybe this would be his time in the spotlight. He only hoped it wouldn't end in the coroner's spotlight.   
Carl sat quietly on the bed, his finger running up and down the closed blades of the scissors. Greg had a crazy thought as to how much blue light would he see on those blades if he had any luminol with him at that moment. They'd probably fluoresce so brightly, it'd light up the entire room, he thought ruefully. And the walls  
"I d-don't w-want to t-talk about it," Carl said finally.   
"Did they hurt you?" Greg pushed.  
Carl's breathing was getting heavier.   
"Did they say something bad, Carl?"  
A hand grabbed the handles tightly.   
"Did they laugh at you?"  
A sudden cry startled Greg as Carl turned and lunged at him, the blades coming down quickly. Greg's hand shot out and grabbed a hold of Carl's arm and held the blades mere inches from his face. Their hands shook with their effort until Carl's other hand clamped down around Greg's throat and started squeezing. His foul breath assaulted Greg and only added another element of attack.   
They fought on the bed, rolling around, each trying to get the blades where they wanted them. Carl cried out a few times in frustration as Greg once again saved his face from being mutilated.   
A sudden crash sent Carl flying off Greg's body as his eyes darted back and forth in panic. Greg heard faint voices coming from the living room. When Carl looked away, Greg seized the opportunity and lunged at Carl's hand, grabbing the scissors by the blades and yanking them away. Carl cried out, a high-pitched whine, and turned a pained and hurt expression toward Greg.   
Then a woman's high strident voice called out from the living room, muffled by the door. "Carl? Are you okay?"   
Carl grinned, showing stained teeth behind chapped lips. "I'm fine, Mrs. Caldwell!"  
"Are you sure?"   
Carl shut his eyes and squeezed his hands shut. "Yes! Mrs. Caldwell, now _go away!!_" he shouted.   
Greg had scooted back on the bed and was just about to get off when Carl lunged at him one more time and grabbed onto Greg's wrist and smashing into the night side table, sending the scissors flying. In a flash of movement, Carl flipped Greg's body on his back and sprawled on top of him, holding both his hand above his head. With the other, he retrieved some more rope from a back pocket and tied Greg's hands to the headboard. Greg tried to buck him off, but the side-effects of the chloroform were still in his system and his attempts were weak at best, only serving to both irritate and please Carl as he smiled down, breathing his foul breath on Greg's face. Greg coughed and turned away, still trying to pull his arms away. With a quick twist of the body that Greg didn't think was possible for a man like Carl, he was at his feet and had bound them as well. Then he bound off and returned, scissors in hand as he straddled Greg's hips. He smiled down at Greg, his pale blue eyes a ghostly impression of his former humanity.   
Greg stared back up, his mind struggling to find some way out of his mess. His breathing was coming in quick gasps and the rope was once again chaffing his sensitive skin. He tried to keep himself still but his beating heart kept insisting on at least a mild attempt at escape. "Why?" he asked.   
"W-why what?"  
"Why me?"  
Carl cocked his head to one side and regarded Greg curiously, and then he shrugged his shoulders, his face returning to its former expressionless glee.   
Greg shut his eyes. To look into Carl's eyes was to look into a bottomless pit of a mind gouged of its conscience. It was horrifying to behold.   
The bed dipped and Greg's eyes shot open. Carl's face was directly above his, Carl's dank breath once again assaulting his senses. He fought to keep his stomach settled, breathing from his mouth and fighting the facts screaming in his mind about admitting such foulness by circumventing the natural filters of the nose. Now was not the time to be considering such rather mundane facts; they certainly wouldn't save him. "You n-need to be a g-g-good boy now, G-Greg."  
"Why?"  
"I d-don't want to h-hurt you."  
Greg struggled to catch his panicked breathing. "Why would you want to hurt me, Carl?"  
"You n-need to be a g-g-good boy now, G-Greg."  
"_Why?"_  
Carl pulled back a bit and blinked. "N-no need to yell."  
"I'm not yelling," Greg said in a lower tone, trying to keep the quiver from his voice.   
"Good. C-cause I d-don't want to h-hurt you."  
"I don't want you to hurt me either."  
Carl smiled then, a sad smile. "I have to."  
Greg's heart jumped a beat and the panic took over. His body jerked and bucked and he screamed, his head craning back into the pillow as he tried to pull his feet and hands free.   
Carl sat up and put his entire weight on Greg's hips, pining him to the bed, that small sad smile still plastered on his face as his hand with the scissors came up. "Shh," he said. "D-don't want to b-bring back ol' Mrs. C-C-Caldwell."  
Greg stopped moving and opened his mouth wide. "_MRS. CALDWELL!! MRS. –"|_  
Carl's hand clamped down on Greg's mouth, the smile gone from his face. The pale blue eyes, like ice, bore into Greg's. The blades of the scissors glinted fiercely in the light of the lone lamp. "That wasn't very nice, Greg."   
Greg stared up at him, his eyes wide above the hand. Carl's voice had changed. It was lower, deeper and darker. The stutter had disappeared. Greg's pitiful knowledge of psychology wasn't very optimistic. One look into Carl's eyes and he knew Carl was not in complete control and any pretense of patience or friendliness was now gone for good. Now it was all business.   
Carl brought the scissors to glide over Greg's face by his ear. The hand pushed his head hard into the pillow and made any movement practically impossible. Greg could only watch with horror as the scissors came at him with deliberate slowness and lay still as they caressed his skin, their coldness sending fear in sharp currents through his body. A cry formed in his throat but stayed there, muffled by the hand.   
His fear mounted as the tips of the scissors began pressing into the skin of his cheek, pinching the skin against his teeth. He tried to scream and pull away, but it was no use. The hand seemed to push Greg's face toward the blades. In one last bid for survival Greg mustered all his strength and thrust his hips upward, dislodging Carl's body from his and clamping down as hard as he could on the hand. Greg screamed as loudly as he could, muffling Carl's own screams of pain.   
Cursing madly, Carl rummaged around and came up with a rather dingy looking shirt that must have been at least ten years old, and a sock in the other hand. The sock was stuffed into Greg's mouth and the shirt Carl used to tie the sock in. Greg's prone body couldn't fight Carl off and he found himself now bound and gagged and the prisoner of Carl, his stomach protesting the addition of such a repulsive tasting material in his mouth.   
"Now, we can have some real fun," Carl said, smiling again.   
The scissors danced on Greg's midriff before the shirt was slowly pulled upward to expose the delicate flesh of his belly, the most vulnerable part of the body. Greg whimpered and tried to press himself into the mattress. Carl laughed deep in his throat. "Can't get away now, Greg."  
Another sudden banging on the door made Carl pause. He sighed. "What _now_, Mrs. Caldwell?"   
"Police! Open up!"  
Carl's face dropped and he stared down at Greg, his eyes wide with fear. Greg, in turn stared up at Carl, his own eyes wide with faint hope.  
"Carl Dockery! We know you're in there! Open up now!"  
Carl ran around the bed and stopped at the doorway. He looked back towards Greg, at the front door and then back at Greg. Making his decision, he returned to Greg and ripped his shirt up, his other hand bringing the scissors up above his head and pointing down. Greg screamed as loud as he could behind the sock and began bucking his body this way and that, anything to make any kind of noise before it was too late.   
The headboard clanged against the wall in a dull thud and then there was a loud crack as the front door was battered down. "POLICE!"  
Greg screamed again, the sound a negligible attempt.   
Carl growled deep in his throat, the hand with the scissors trembled in the air just before they began their swift descent. Greg shut his eyes, screaming one last time before it was too late.  
A sharp crack sounded and Greg felt the bed shift heavily. He opened his eyes and Carl's prone body was half laying on the bed, the hand with the scissors resting innocently on Greg's leg.   
In a blur of activity, men dressed in black came rushing into the room, their guns drawn and shifting this was and that at what might be moving. One of them kicked Carl's body, sending it falling noiselessly into a pile of clothes on the floor, the hand with the scissors dragging off Greg's body.   
One of the men's hands flew into the air in a series of intricate movements and a muffled voice could be heard behind their masks. The rest dropped their guns and Captain Brass rushed into the room. Greg's wide eyes stared up at him.   
"Jeezus!" Brass muttered before ripping the shirt from his head and yanking out the sock. He made a face and dropped them to the ground. Greg spat to the side, coughing and gagging until he felt his stomach might settle into something less jumpy.   
Grissom was next in the room and groaned at the sight before him before turning around to Greg on the bed. Brass was cutting the rope around his wrists and ankles and helping him sit up.   
Greg immediately pulled his shirt down, wrapped his arms around himself and began rocking back and forth.   
"Greg, you okay?" Grissom asked, crouching in front of him after kicking a pile of clothes away.   
"Fuck no!" Greg said.   
Grissom stood up. "Medic!" He turned to Greg. "We're gonna get you out of here, Greg."  
"Thank god," he said and shuddered when his eyes caught sight of Carl's face down body, blood seeping out from his chest area. 

~*~

Copyright © 2003 Anansay


	13. Safe

Don't Be A Bad Boy

Chapter Thirteen

13 - SAFE

Carl's body had been removed and his tiny apartment cleared and fumigated. The stench would forever be a bane in Greg's mind, forever a reminder of how close he came to meeting the grim reaper. Greg vowed then and there to never, ever leave his clothes on the floor; they would always make it to the hamper and be washed as promptly as possible.   
A light spraying of luminol had indeed showed signs of blood matter on the walls and the sheets where Greg had lain. The living room and kitchen had fared no better and there was speculation as to just what exactly had transpired in that tiny living area. Carl Dockery's DNA had been matched to the three previous victims and their families finally had some solace in their deaths.   
  
Greg sat on the couch in the breakroom huddled beneath a blanket. A shower and a change of clothes had taken away most of the feeling of wretchedness, but it still lingered, in the darker recesses of his mind. Images and sensations would crop up unsought to jolt him back to Carl's apartment and the intense fear that had wracked his body. Thoughts of all the possibilities of what might have happened had his friends not arrived when they did only intensified the trauma. He'd shudder when this happened and shut his eyes tight, willing the images and panic to go away and leave him alone.  
"You okay?" Sara asked, perching herself beside him and handing him a coffee.   
"Hmm, yeah, thanks," he said as he took the steaming cup in his hand and took a sip. He closed his eyes as the sweet sharp taste ignited his taste buds.   
"Hey," Nick said quietly, from the other side of him. "Since when do you smoke?"  
Greg stared into his cup. "I've always smoked." The words came out quietly, as though he were thinking of another time. "But only when I'm really stressed."  
Nick said nothing, letting the words and their meaning seep into him.   
"The butts?" Greg said.  
"Huh?" answered Nick.   
"How did you find me?"   
"Oh, yeah, the butts. We tested them. They were yours. And then we found a hankerchief in the alleyway. The DNA was yours and the fingerprints were..." his voice trailed off. Everyone knew.   
Greg nodded his head.   
Warrick sat forward from his perch on the armrest of the chair that Catherine occupied. "You left them there on purpose?"  
Greg looked up at him. "What? Uh, no. I didn't. I didn't know know what was going on until... he put his hand over my face and... dragged me away." He shuddered again, his eyes closing.   
Nick spoke again. "Look Greg, I'm really sorry about jiving you about..."  
"Hey," Greg said. "Don't worry about it. If you hadn't said that... If I hadn't gone outside... We'd never have caught the guy." He plastered a smile on his face, but it didn't reach his eyes. They remained dark and haunted. "Greg cracks the case again, uh?" The smile disappeared.   
Nick tried to return the smile. It didn't work. No one else smiled either.   
"I'm just glad you're safe, man," Warrick said.   
"Yeah, we all are," Catherine said.   
Greg smiled at them and a small spark lit in his eyes.   
"Now we can get some music blaring in the hallways again!" Sara chirped, getting to her feet.   
"Yeah, man, it's been too quiet in here. We need you!" said Warrick, joining Sara.   
Catherine smiled, leaned over and patted Greg's leg, and joined Sara and Warrick. Nick rose as well. They all left the breakroom, leaving Grissom sitting on the armrest of another chair, hands clasped on his thigh. He wasn't looking at Greg.   
"Well, I guess I should be getting home now," Greg said.  
"Greg I'm glad you're safe." His low voice broke the silence with its singular inflection of uncharacteristic softeness toward the young lab tech.   
Greg stare up at Grissom. If he didn't know any better, he could have sworn he saw the tiniest hint of a smile on the older man's face before he too got up and left, leaving Greg alone.   


~*~

Copyright © 2003 Anansay


End file.
